


The Holy Friday

by red_edelweiss



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Spanish Prison AU, past s-2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 07:56:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20542730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_edelweiss/pseuds/red_edelweiss
Summary: The symbolism of Holy Triduum – passion, death and the resurrection of the Lord – becomes much more striking when ceremonies are led by a man who spent nearly a full year of his so-called death in a Spanish prison.





	The Holy Friday

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-reading by Morven. Thank you for checking it so fast.

Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am in distress;  
my eyes grow weak with sorrow,  
my soul and body with grief.  
My life is consumed by anguish  
and my years by groaning;  
my strength fails because of my affliction,  
and my bones grow weak. (...)  
I am forgotten as though I were dead;  
I have become like broken pottery.  
For I hear many whispering,  
“Terror on every side!”  
They conspire against me  
and plot to take my life.

\- Psalm 31, 9:13

***

It is a warm spring in Paris and the sun shines furiously through the highly-placed stained glass of Notre Dame and its Northern rose window, as if desperate to bathe the church in the light. The sturdiness of the gothic architecture successfully prevents that, though, and despite the morning sunlight, the inside of the building remains dim, dark if not for the army of candles illuminating it. Inside the Notre Dame, it always feels like it is a permanent evening.

It is because of the general darkness that Richelieu is unsure whether his eyes are tricking him or he does indeed see a blue cape. He takes a couple of steps forward and finally, dares to call out.

“Captain Treville?”

The man turns his head and without a doubt – it is Treville. The cardinal’s steps change from slow and hesitant to quick and surefooted as he approaches.

Even with Treville’s back to him and his hat in his hand, Richelieu was certain he recognized him. All musketeers wear blue capes and stand impossibly straight but only their captain stands in this familiar, military way, the mark of life-long soldiers in active service; the only difference between his casual posture and standing at attention is the way he holds his head and the lack of tension in his arms.

Richelieu knows it. He knows those details by heart.

_What a fool I am._

He approaches Treville and the captain nods respectfully in greeting. They stand next to the one of the many round candleholders in the cathedral.The flames of the burning candles stuck inside the sanded bottom warm the air.

“Yesterday’s sermon was beautiful, Your Eminence,” Treville says quietly. “Emotive.”

The small wave of warmth spreading inside Richelieu’s chest has nothing to do with the burning candles nearby.

_Abysmal fool that I am._

“Holy Week is the most important period for every man of faith, captain. Our Lord died for our sins and then conquered the death itself. It’s unbecoming to not sound emotional when talking about it.” He pauses. “And my sermons are always exceptional. How generous of you to notice that after so many years.”

There’s the quietest of chuckles. “I wouldn’t know that. Usually you preach for so long that I tune out after the first five minutes and just wait until you finish. I’m lucky you give them only during the greatest religious feasts.”

“You willingly choose to close your ears to words of wisdom but that’s of no surprise to me. If you at least limited your stubborn ignorance to my sermons only, I’d consider it a little less vacuous.”

“I like the archbishop’s sermons.”

“You don’t listen to them either.”

“No, but they are shorter.”

Richelieu rolls his eyes. “How typically musketeerish.”

“I am a musketeer.”

There was a time when Richelieu would have rejoined that phrase with something like “I’m sorry for you,” or “Unfortunately, you are,” or a similar caustic remark. But not now.

No, not now.

Treville turns to the candleholder, reaching out to a small box attached to the edge of the disc. He takes out one spare candle, holding it carefully between fingers. The cardinal follows the movement of the hand with his gaze.

“For somebody who claims to not listen to sermons, yesterday you appeared to listen quite intently.”

Treville doesn’t answer, not immediately. He brings the tip of his candle to the already burning one. The wick catches fire.

“No less intently than the whole church. This is a special Easter, for everyone.”

He puts the candle he is holding in the sand of the candleholder. One flickering flame joins the rest.

That it is a special Easter goes without saying, Richelieu thinks. Easter, a time of death, grief and resurrection. A time of renewal and waking up from the darkness to searing light. The time of the spilt blood of Christ and the time of the final victory over the demons of Hell.

He glances down at his hands. He has them folded in front of him in that trained way he has been rehearsing for weeks with a mirror. The way that looks natural and at the same time fulfills its original purpose: to cover two empty spaces where ring fingers should be.

The symbolism of Holy Triduum – passion, death and the resurrection of the Lord – becomes much more striking when ceremonies are led by a man who spent nearly a full year of his so-called death in a Spanish prison. He was tortured and beaten, and still walked out of it alive. He walked out of it two fingers short, with permanent bruises and a shattered, slow-to-heal spirit but still, he left undoubtedly alive.

Passion and death must have been painful for the human part of Jesus Christ. However, Richelieu always perceived Resurrection as an ultimate sign of divine glory. It never appeared to him that coming back to life might have been the most painful trial of all. What were Jesus’ feelings when Thomas didn’t believe?

Yesterday, everybody looked at him like he was a ghost, not a man. Like he was a mirage that was going to dissolve and disappear once they turned their heads in another direction.

Before, he was hated and feared. Now, he is twice as feared. This is what months of imprisonment and pain had granted him. More fear.

A special Easter indeed.

“On Holy Friday there’s no morning Mass, captain, or did you forget?”

“I’m aware of it.”

“Then what you are doing here so early in the morning?”

“Is this a concern of a religious nature, political or…”

“Let’s say it’s a personal one.”

“I wanted to say prayer in thanks.”

Richelieu casts him a glance, his eyebrows rising.

“…You?”

He shouldn’t have commented on that, he knows, and the exclamation is unnecessary – but in truth, he is caught off guard. Treville’s own relation with God for a long time remained a source of morbid fascination for the cardinal. The captain’s attitude could be called unorthodox at best, heretical at worst, and Richelieu was never completely sure under which category Treville falls. Treville himself appeared to be aware of the confusion he caused and liked to dryly repeat that he was beyond any redemption. There was a time Richelieu was calmly convinced it was merely a truism. But not now. No, not now.

Heretics who doubt the very existence of God do not come to church on their own with a genuine desire to pray, nevermind in thanks.

Heretics who do not have faith do not scream of honour and defend Christian morals with a fire in their eyes each time reality demands sacrifices.

Heretics who are damned do not make Richelieu fear that maybe he is meant to go to Hell alone.

Ultimately, heretics do not come to Spanish prisons with their men, engaging in suicidal missions to rescue kidnapped cardinals. Heretics do not waste time on old, damaged lovers, lavishing them in tenderness and kindness for no other reason than because they care. Heretics do not stay the night in your bed, running their hands through your hair to help you fall asleep without nightmares. Heretics do not kiss empty places left by two hacked off fingers with devotion, they do not caress every scar and bruise torturers left while whispering “Rien de ce que je ressens n'a changé.” _Nothing I feel has changed._

But if not a heretic, then who Treville is?

An ange–

_No,_ Richelieu stops himself right there, _no_. It’s truly better not to try to define it.

“You came to pray?”

He doesn’t get an immediate answer. Instead, Treville coughs quietly and looks somewhere to the side.

_Is he… Is he flustered?_

_Really._

“I thought it was proper,” the captain grumbles, still not looking up. “A lot happened during this last year. I wanted to… give thanks for everything.”

“Forgive me for being surprised,” Richelieu says slowly, weighing the words in his mind, “but being thankful is the last thing I expected you to be.”

“I know but… Is this a confession?”

“Wha– n– y–“ Richelieu tries to answer too quickly and lets himself stutter. He sighs angrily and heavily, pauses and finally admits, “I merely want to know what sits in your head.”

He casts a sly glance at Treville and hoping that his eyes won’t betray the stupid, ridiculous hope that is now boiling in his chest against all reason.

_I want this. Tell me._

“You want to know what’s in my head, why?”

“Let’s call it curiosity.”

“It’s never only ‘curiosity’ with you.”

_I want you. Tell me about yourself._

He is such a fool, such a pathetic fool.

“Naturally, I have ulterior motives I’m not going to share with you.”

“You haven’t changed at all,” Treville’s voice is colored by warmth and Richelieu may guess why. Yes, in that aspect he is very grateful too. It means he hasn’t been broken wholly.

They stand in silence, not looking at each other. Instead, they observe the flickering flames of the lit candles. They stand in silence for so long that Richelieu starts to believe he is not going to hear any answer.

Failed hopes always have a bitter taste. It was obviously a too personal question.

“During the last year, I lost everything.”

Richelieu freezes, not daring to utter a word in response. Even his breathing is now too loud for his ears. All he wants to hear is Treville’s voice.

And the captain’s tone is hollow, tired.

“I really lost everything,” he continues. “Everything I held dear. Never before in my life I was at such a low place.”

Richelieu listens with a beating heart. He doesn’t ask further, he doesn’t encourage. He just listens.

“Your death – well, your fake death – was the first blow. It created an avalanche. Louis was grieving, was hard to satisfy. I was grieving too.”

He admits it so openly? Another sign that whoever Treville is, he’s not a heretic. To grieve a demanding, stormy lover one must an ang- no, someone special.

“Rochefort appeared and everything went to shit. Literally everything. He sabotaged our missions, he danced around Louis like a snake and I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t have what was required to stop his intrigues. I lacked your experience. I lost my captainship. I lost my favour. I had to watch as everything crumbled. There were personal troubles. De Foix died. I found my friend only to lose him again. I was in conflict with Porthos. I got shot. Everything was so shit.”

Richelieu knows he doesn’t have to reply. It is for the better. Truly, he would have no idea what to say. Words fail him at the moment.

He knows well what Treville is talking about. Spanish prison finally taught him what it meant to be completely abandoned. Previously, he had only gone through moments of haughty loneliness in comparison.

Only when you learn that your world is truly limited to a tight cell with one small window, much too narrow to put a hand outside and placed much too high for you to reach, only then do you know abandonment. Only when you learn the door won’t open for any other than Spaniards dressed in black, only when you lie aching, curled in a corner like a wounded animal and you sob through the clenched teeth from shame, rage and fear, only then do you know abandonment. Only when you start praying for an angels’ saving grace, only then do you know abandonment.

Richelieu’s throat is dry and something in his chest tightens alarmingly. Have the shadows just moved? He shoots a look to the side and the line of the dark alcoves. He wets the lips with his tongue and forces himself to look at the candles. Light, light, focus on the light. _This church isn’t as dark and as small as you perceive it to be, your mind is just playing tricks on you-_

“Armand, are you all right?”

_He is there, you’ll be fine, fool._ Your prayed for angel is there and he’s looking at you, calm down.

“Armand-“

“Continue.” Although his chest is heavy with a sensation of panic, his voice is calm. At least that is familiar, that didn’t change. “I want to know why you’re thankful. Continue.”

“Uh…” Treville hesitates but not for long. “It’s just… Everything got fixed. After such a terrifying period, everything started to go well. Rochefort was defeated. That Spanish rat, Vargas, wanted to save his hide and told us about… you. We went there. We brought you back. We made up with Porthos. Everything I thought was lost had somehow returned. I consider that a gift. I have no idea if I deserve it but I’m thankful for it.”

He fights the urge to again scan the alcoves because he feels some hostile presence there but he hangs onto Treville’s every word. It helps with the unease. “How expected of you, to be grateful for what you’ve accomplished yourself.”

“I didn’t accomplish anything.”

“You have earned your happy ending.”

“I didn’t earn anything. I followed orders. It’s nothing special.”

“You haven’t changed.”

“Thankfully. And now let’s get out of here. Please.”

A good word, Richelieu thinks as they head to the exit of the church nearly arm in arm. A good word, ‘thankfully’. Yes, the cardinal is thankful Treville hasn’t changed.

“Rien de ce que je ressens n'a changé.” _Nothing I feel has changed._

When he steps back outside, into the sunny morning, he leaves panic behind him. Inside a poorly lit cathedral. He’ll demand more candles for the oncoming mass.

He walks down the wide stone steps onto the pavement covered with limestone. Further away, his men await with the armoured carriage.

“Are you all right?” Treville’s voice is barely above a whisper.

“Yes.”

“Then I shall bid my goodbye,” the captain no longer bothers with whispering. Clearing his throat, he puts on the hat he’s been holding in his hand this whole time. Richelieu shouldn’t torture himself by looking. He does it anyway.

Treville is broad, fit, has shorter hair but a fuller beard than Richelieu is used to, with the first white strands visible. The sapphire eyes are still clear and bright.

Despite everything he went through, he’s still devilishly handsome. Like every musketeer.

_What an abysmal fool I am._

“Your Eminence,” Treville turns to him and respectfully lowers his head. Dressed in full captain’s attire, just without the armor. The view should never have become as thrilling as it had through all these years.

_Fool, fool, fool._

He wants to go. He’s turned on his heel and bristly walks away, and…

“Captain. Captain, wait!”

Treville stops in his track. He looks over his shoulder and when he sees that Richelieu walks up to him, he faces him again.

“Your Eminence? What do you wish of me?”

_You._

It is impossible. He knows it, he understands. He should be content that things haven’t changed and stay the same. He should be content he’s a lover of that man. It’s already too much.

Yet, surviving the Spanish prison was an impossible task. Building this country and moulding it into a creation that will be able to dominate Europe was and still remains an impossible task. He’s been doing impossible for his whole life.

How is this any different?

“Pay me a visit in the evening. A dinner, perhaps?”

Treville blinks, clearly surprised.

“Again?”

“Yes. Again.”

“You wish to discuss the recent war situation?”

Yes. Yes, that too. They are at war with Spain and their recent military successes near Gascony border, although minor, are slightly alarming.

“Among other things, yes. I’d like to know your opinion about the reports I received.”

“Among other- ah.”

That “ah” is a half-sigh, half-growl. Treville’s mouth cracks into a smile, a smile that promises many pleasant things and a mere sight of it causes a shiver of anticipation to crawl down Richelieu’s back.

“So,” Treville leans in, lowers his voice, “we’re making up for the Lent?”

Yes. Yes, that too. Ironically, Richelieu didn’t have any intention to abide by it – he always put that Pope’s dispensation to good use. Through the last month, there simply wasn’t enough time for an old-fashioned rendez-vous. Richelieu was caught up in paperwork while Treville trained new recruits. Short moments of privacy they both shared in the meantime were more teasing than satisfying. The flesh was stated but the heart is always greedier.

“Among other things, yes. I expect a thorough war discussion, captain.”

“Is that an order from the First Minister?”

His response is only a smirk. He had no idea he can still smirk like that while being so old, with a damaged body and hacked off ring fingers but here they are.

Treville’s blue eyes are deeper and brighter than his musketeer’s cape, than forget-me-nots, than lapis lazuli, than sapphires.

“I’m so thankful to have you back.”

It’s hard to describe the emotions hearing this causes.

“I’m so bloody thankful to have you back, Armand.”

***

But I trust in you, Lord;  
I say, “You are my God.”  
My times are in your hands;  
deliver me from the hands of my enemies,  
from those who pursue me. (...)  
How abundant are the good things  
that you have stored up for those who fear you,  
that you bestow in the sight of all,  
on those who take refuge in you.  
In the shelter of your presence you hide them  
from all human intrigues;  
you keep them safe in your dwelling  
from accusing tongues.

Praise be to the Lord,  
for he showed me the wonders of his love  
when I was in a city under siege.

\- Psalm 31, 14:21


End file.
